She is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.

Dead, we are revealed in our true dimensions, and they are surprisingly modest.

. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.

You have started the book with this bubble over your head that contains a cathedral full of fire - that contains a novel so vast and great and penetrating and bright and dark that it will put all other novels ever written to shame. And then, as you get towards the end, you begin to realise, no, it's just this book.

There is a beauty in the world, though it's harsher than we expect it to be.

This is what you do. You make a future for yourself out of the raw material at hand.

Here's a secret. Many novelists, if they are pressed and if they are being honest, will admit that the finished book is a rather rough translation of the book they'd intended to write.